


even now i lie awake

by Chrome



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Gen, Historical References, I have a lot of feelings about Lafayette and Washington, to some extent historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1795, and George Washington has an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even now i lie awake

The year is 1795, and it is late evening; Martha has gone up to bed, though George Washington still sits in the parlor, finishing a letter. He does not sleep well anymore—he has not slept well in a long time. He has found it is better to wait until Martha has drifted off, so that his twisting and turning is less likely to wake her. She claims she does not mind, but he feels guilty anyway.

He feels guilty for many reasons these days, though he knows he has done all he can, is doing all he can. This will be his last term as President, and then the nation will move on. It will continue to grow, far beyond everything he has done for it, and it will be up to history to judge him the way he constantly judges himself.

It is a cold and wet night, the moon and stars largely blocked by clouds. The storm is a little unusual for April, and he wonders if the wind and rain lashing against the windows will rip the new leaves from the tree branches. He suspects the weather is better further south; he misses Mount Vernon.

There is a knock on the door, although at first he thinks it is simply a branch scraping against the house. Then it comes again, and he stands. He hears footsteps on the stairs from the servant’s quarters and meets a maid hurrying up the stairs into the hall; he waves her away and goes to answer it himself.

Washington opens the door only a fraction, though a gust of cold air blows into the room anyway. “Who is it?” he asks, extending the candle into the opening. The flame writhes in the sudden wind, casting wild shadows and providing little illumination. A figure stands on the porch, little more than a silhouette in the dimness.

“This is the home of, George Washington?” It is the voice of a boy, rather than a man, and his words are deliberate, delivered in a thick French accent as though every syllable is heavy and unfamiliar.

“I am he,” he says, warily.

“I am very sorry to come so late,” he says. “My English—it is not very good. I have a letter, from my father, for you.”

Washington opens the door further, not fully certain why he is letting this boy in at such an hour, even less certain why the boy has come. And it is a boy, he realizes, as his visitor steps inside—he looks to be fifteen or sixteen, and his steps are as uncertain as his words.

Water drips from his wool coat onto the floor; he removes it sheepishly and at Washington’s gesture, hands it on the coatrack by the door. Then he turns back, and for the first time his face is fully visible to the light, and Washington feels as though he is falling back through time.

\---

The year is 1777, and he is at a dinner, greeting people he knows and does not like mixed with people he does not know and does not expect to like, painfully stiff in his formalities. He does not often smile, and he does not smile then, going through the motions because these people are, for the most part, on the same side. They may disagree on methods, they may be largely bureaucratic types who have no real sense of what war truly is, but they do have some desire to support the Revolution and so George Washington puts up with them.

He wonders how many of the young men who pass him, the ones he cannot stop to greet, will die under his command. He wonders how much faith these men have in him, and how terribly misplaced it may be.

“Ah, General Washington,” someone says. “Have you met the Marquis de Lafayette?”

Washington wants to say that he doesn’t remember doing so because these French nobles aren’t worth remembering, offering aid and then expecting high salaries and privilege. They are here for glory only, not because they want to see America succeed but because they hope Britain will fail, and then they can go home and brag about their exploits. He doesn’t, though, and instead shakes his head. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” he finds himself shaking the hand of a terribly young, handsome young man with bright eyes and barely contained energy. “I look forward to serving under you.” He has an obvious French accent, but his English is good despite it; though his pronunciation is not always correct, he is rarely at a loss for words.

He is quick-witted and fast-talking but is also, to Washington’s surprise, deeply interested in what other people are saying and thinking. He asks carefully, as the conversation continues, 

“What cause has brought you to America?”

“Yours,” the Marquis says, and there is nothing in his voice, his face, that indicates he is speaking with anything less than honesty. “The freedom of America.”

A man interrupts, then, begging his pardon but there are other men for the Marquis to meet, and Lafayette apologizes and makes to stay, but Washington urges him away.

He watches him cross the room and then turns to General Greene, standing beside him, and inquires what the Marquis is being paid for his commission.

“Nothing,” General Greene gives a shrug. “He offered to serve without salary.”

Washington is not inclined to like French noblemen, but he thinks then that he might be inclined to like Lafayette. He invites him back to visit his camp, and Lafayette accepts with enthusiasm. It is only when they get there that he realizes what it must look like—the poor equipment, disorder, threadbare and uneven uniforms. His troops are ragged, the encampment itself unimpressive at best.

He admits, with some embarrassment, “It is in a poor state—I do not expect that you have a good opinion of us.”

Lafayette’s expression, as he looks about the camp, carries no hint of judgment. He looks back at Washington, and the glint in his eyes is no dimmer, his tone no less respectful. “I am here to learn, not to teach.” That look, his bright eyes in the firelight, Washington can remember perfectly all these years on.

\---

The year is 1795, but it is those features that he sees before him, as though the ghost of young Lafayette stands rain-soaked in his foyer. He wonders if his guilt has slid out his heart and solidified into an apparition, another punishment to heap upon himself: a vision of the son he has abandoned.

George Washington has never had children, but he has thought of Lafayette as his since not long past that first meeting. He had joined Washington’s staff and been a great credit to it—a sharp tactician, a good soldier, but also a new part of the then-general’s family.

He had told Lafayette he considered him a son, and he had meant it, and the years wore on and the boy returned to France and in these intervening years has become a man. They have exchanged letters since, and in these past years the Marquis’ have grown heavy with the concern that he is no longer safe in France, that his family is no longer safe. He has expressed the hope of returning to America, of bringing his wife and children with him.

I sincerely hope that my family should be able to meet you, Washington remembers the line, the carefully looping letters.

And Washington has done nothing; more than that, he has ordered his country to stay out of European politics as the danger grows, as Lafayette attempts to leave France and he offers no aid. He is growing a nation; it is still a seedling, a fledgling, and he cannot yet expose it to such fire. He knows this. Every decision he makes is carefully thought out; Hamilton agrees, other men agree.

And when he signs the Declaration of Neutrality to spare his country, he knows he has sacrificed the man he once called his son. He has wondered if he still has the right, when he has failed so entirely to protect him—no, not failed, but refused to even try.

And now this specter before him is a terrible, painful reminder of what he has had to do, this boy fumbling into his pockets and producing a letter, which he holds out to him a letter.

“It is for you,” he says. “It is from my father.”

“The Marquis de Lafayette,” Washington says, retrieving the letter opener from the mantle and taking the envelope. “You are his son.”

“Yes,” the boy says, with something like surprise. Clearly he does not know how much he resembles his father. Washington cuts through the seal on the envelope and replaces the knife.

“I believe we share a name,” he says, and thinking of that is another tiny stab in the gut, another  
reminder of his failure and his guilt. It is for the best that he never had children with his wife, he thinks, because he has done little to deserve the son he had.

“Yes,” the boy blushes a little, ducking his head. “My father has always spoken very highly of you.”

He removes the letter, unfolds it carefully. Lafayette’s handwriting is still recognizable to him, although it is shaky in places, as though his hand trembled as he wrote. Washington remembers assigning him and Hamilton to the task of soliciting aid, Lafayette for his popularity and charisma, Alexander to correct his friend’s spelling. Said spelling is perhaps marginally better than before, although still creative in places.

Washington almost wants to smile, but doesn’t, as he reads the faded, looping ink.

_My dear friend,_

_I send this letter with my son, Georges, in the hope that he and it will reach you safely. The journey to America is not a quick one, so it will be some time between this writing and your reading, although I am not optimistic enough to hope that the situation will have changed. Specifically, I am not optimistic that my situation will improve by then, or indeed that it may again._

_I hope that you will be able to do me the great service of looking after my son for the time being; America is far safer for him than Europe, and I can think of no one who I would trust more with his well-being. You have been like a father to me, and I consider myself very fortunate for that—I know that if you can show to Georges even a fraction of the kindness that you have always shown to me, he could be in no better place._

_I wish that I could see you again, but I suspect I will not see beyond the walls of this cell for a long time; perhaps I will not return to America again in my lifetime. Please do not think that I bear towards you, or any of my friends in your nation, any ill will. We all have duties greater than those to ourselves and those we love—I fought for your country to exist, and that it continues to thrive is far more important to me than any aid that could be rendered._

_I wish you and Martha all the best; please convey my greetings and best wishes to Jefferson and Hamilton. Should there be no happy end to this, know that I assign no blame and still think of you all with great affection._

_I have the honor to be, yours,_

_Lafayette_

He lifts his head from the page; his eyes are wet. Georges is watching him. He starts to speak, then hears his wife’s footsteps on the stairs.

“George?” she asks, coming down in her gown, candle in hand. “Was someone at the door? Oh!”

“Martha,” he says. “This is Georges Washington de Lafayette, the Marquis’ son. We are lucky enough to have him as our guest. Georges, this is my wife, Mrs. Martha Washington.”

Georges bows, a little awkwardly; Martha smiles, shaking off her surprise. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” she says.

“The pleasure is mine,” Georges says, with less uncertainty; he is on more even footing in English with common pleasantries. He looks exhausted, still cold and damp from being outside in the storm, and Washington feels a rush of protectiveness.

A maid is lurking by the top of the steps, and Washington motions her forward, hastily.  
“Please, show Georges to a guest room. Georges, it is late and I expect you are tired; perhaps Sarah can show you your room?”

“Yes, thank you,” he says. “I am—thank you, for having me here.”

“I am very glad for the opportunity,” he says, and means it. “I look forward to talking with you, although I think that is best left for the morning.”

Georges nods and follows Sarah; Washington leans against the bannister.

“George?” Martha asks. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says, and then shakes his head. “He looks—a great deal like his father.”

“Is the letter from—“ she starts to ask.

“Yes,” he says, and folds the letter carefully. Then he adds, softly, “He says he does not blame me.”

“No,” Martha said. “I did not think he would.” She holds out a hand for the letter, and he willingly hands it over and watches her read. She skims it quickly, and hands it back.

“I don’t know how long Georges will be with us,” he warns.

“As long as he wishes to stay,” she replies. “That is something we can do.” She starts to climb the stairs. “Come up to bed soon, George.”

“I will,” he says, but sits back down at the table instead and sets his other correspondence aside. He retrieves a fresh page to begin a letter in reply to the one he now holds in his hand, but words fail him and he sets it aside.

He cannot, he thinks, in good conscience write a letter that Lafayette will never be able to receive. So Washington decides to save his reply for such a time in the future.

He prays that such a time will come; then he picks up his candle and walks up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my beta-reader, celestialshimmer, for editing this, and also for being the recipient of a lot of messages in all caps in the middle of the night.
> 
> I got briefly sidetracked from my other project by reading all about George Washington's relationship with Lafayette. Lafayette was only nineteen when they met, and Washington really did view him as a son. By 1795, when this story is set, Washington hadn't heard from Lafayette in three years; his last letter was from 1792, shortly before he was imprisoned. He wouldn't get another letter until two years later, in 1797, upon Lafayette's release. There's no evidence that Lafayette sent a letter with Georges, as he did in this story, but Washington did send a letter to Lafayette in the possession of his son when he returned to France.
> 
> Lafayette and Washington would never meet again--Lafayette expressed the wish to travel to see him in his letters, but both Lafayette and his wife were ill from their imprisonment. They would correspond, with some regularity, until Washington's death in 1799. When Lafayette eventually returned to the US in 1824, he went alone to visit Washington's grave.


End file.
